POV: Julian
He wrote for two hours, filled six pages and put the letter in his desk drawer. He went to therapy instead.
The journal was black while the pages were cream. The pen was his father's—a Montblanc, gold nib, the same pen Elliot Croft had used to sign contracts and fire employees and write letters Julian had never received.
Julian sat at his desk in the penthouse. The city was bright outside the window, The piano was closed and The apartment was silent.
He opened the notebook.
He picked up the pen.
He started writing.
Dear Maya,
His hand was shaking then he pressed the pen harder.
I don't know how to start this letter. I don't know how to say any of what I'm about to say but I need to say it even if I never send it or you never read it but I need to say it.
He kept wri
